


Hold to Me

by doyoushipwhoiship



Category: What We Do in the Shadows (TV)
Genre: I cried writing this, M/M, Nandor turns Guillermo, You're Welcome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:14:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24159460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doyoushipwhoiship/pseuds/doyoushipwhoiship
Summary: Nandor, Laszlo and Nadja are attacked. Guillermo saves them but is mortally wounded. Nandor has no choice but to save him from certain death...by turning him.
Relationships: Guillermo/Nandor the Relentless (What We Do in the Shadows TV)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 172





	Hold to Me

**Author's Note:**

> This is loosely based on the S2E10 "Théâtre Des Vampires" episode description.

“Guillermo.”

He’s spoken his familiar’s name so many times before, in so many tones. Livid. Loving. Chiding. Childish. Waking. Aching. Heeding. Needing. Deadly. Desperate. Over a decade of rolling those three precious syllables over his tongue, and here, now, in this moment, they culminate: every “Guillermo” he’s ever said, the combined force of every feeling behind that name, the name that to him means safety. Nandor stands with his feet seemingly cemented to the parquet ballroom floor, the party having fractured, lacerated, splintered to a screeching halt.

Nadja and Laszlo fade from view as Nandor trains his eyes on the three dead vampires, their richly garbed chests staked and facing Heaven. It had been a blur, an ambush, as this trio of assassins broke through the crowd and attacked them. Nandor trembles at the moments-ago memory; at the flash of the figure that swept in at the last moment, pulling them away...saving them. Ending the assassins with their own weapons. The figure lies beside the dead, his scarlet cloak pooling around his body, such a deep red that the blood from his wound had merged with its velvet lining, almost invisible. The figure draws ragged breaths, black mask concealing his features. But Nandor knows who it is. Who it  _ has  _ to be.

“ _ Guillermo _ .”

He falls to his knees, tugging the mask gently from his familiar’s face. Warm brown eyes meet his own. Quivering lips. Lips he’s never kissed.

“M-Master.”

Broken sobs come out of Nandor. An incredible weight settles on him, like tons of stone in a collapsing cavern. The world around him is crumbling. His hand settles on Guillermo’s chest, sporting a wound from an unseen blade. Who had stabbed him? and how? but these questions don’t matter now, Nandor knows, as his own, colder brown eyes burn. There is only one choice to be made. Though of course it isn’t a choice if there is only one option, unless his choice is to do nothing, but to do nothing would be to lose him, and that is a fate worse than death.

Guillermo reaches for the folds of his cloak. Visibly shaking, forcing out the words. “I’m…” He has to stop, strained, pain sending debilitating shockwaves through his body. “I’m scared.”

Blood tears swell and fall, staining Nandor’s cheeks. He leans over him. “Guillermo, I can’t.”

“You have to,” he bites out. His features harden. A grim resolve. With an unsteady hand —he is losing blood, Nandor realizes, and fast—he finds Nandor’s arm and squeezes as hard as he can. “Please.”

_ This is it _ , thinks Nandor, as he reaches for Guillermo’s cheek.  _ This is fragile human life in all its breathtaking entirety. He is dying. This is your last chance. _

“I’m afr-afraid,” Guillermo rasps. Presses his face into the strength of Nandor’s hand.

_ He is afraid. He saved you. Now save him.  _ Get on with it _ , Nadja would say if she could speak.  _ Go on, old chap,  _ Laszlo would encourage. _

“Pl…”

The unfinished syllable snaps him out of his subconscious. He looks down, focusing his eyes on the man he covets more than anyone. The Guillermo he loves is fading.

“Pl _ ease _ .”

Their eyes lock and while Nandor has not been stabbed, that’s what it feels like: the shaft of cold air that pierces his lungs, the chill of decision.  _ Do this or nothing _ . And he knows. Doing nothing is not a possibility.

“Hold to me,” he gasps, throwing himself forward before he can waste another precious second. And as his fangs puncture the side of Guillermo’s throat—hot and human and etched with sweat, with salt—Guillermo gasps too. He blinks blearily into the light, which is blinding, and at the swirling, swarming truss of colors, melting down from the ceiling of the ballroom and its furnishings.

Guillermo cannot breathe. Does he need to? His body has grown cold. He cannot feel his feet, his limbs, his torso. His arms are numb, but— _ hold to me _ —he fights to maintain his grip on Nandor’s shirt. The colors grow dim, then dark. The light goes from bright white to yellow, to orange, to red, all in quick succession. His head is his heart, his heart is his head. All he can feel is the thudding beat, not dissimilar to the masquerade music playing only minutes before, reverberating through the veins Nandor has emptied.

Nandor retracts, fangs leaving deep gashes in his familiar’s skin. With the same fangs, Nandor unceremoniously opens an inch-long slit in his wrist. He is dazed, working on instinct, on impulse. “Guillermo,” he begs, tapping lightly with his opposite hand. Guillermo’s cheek is like ice. His eyes are dead. “Guillermo, please.”

He nudges his mouth open and presses his wrist between the man’s lips. “Drink,” he hisses. “ _ Drink _ .”

Guillermo’s mouth does not move and Nandor panics. “No. No. Guill _ ermo _ .” Blood flows from his eyes and his wrist. Instantaneous. “Please. Awaken.” He rubs at the man’s chest with his free hand, strokes his cheek, digs his fingers in his soft hair. The awful consideration settles in the pit of his stomach that he has failed, that after all the chances he’s had, all the opportunities, moments alone, moments without his roommates around or the camera crew, but after all that wasted time he is a  _ coward _ , and look, see now, what being a  _ coward  _ has cost him.

“ _ Guillermo _ ,” he keens. But he feels movement under his hand. Guillermo’s eyes flutter closed, then open. He stirs, floats back into his consciousness. His tongue laps at the gash in Nandor’s wrist and this hungry consumption, the sound of Guillermo drawing life from his body and pulling it into his own, is the most beautiful sensation Nandor’s ever known. He falls on his side and only pulls his wrist away when he knows Guillermo has had plenty to sustain him for a few hours or so.

He looks over. The pinpricks have disappeared on Guillermo’s throat. He swallows, thoughts wrapped in a gauze. He feels somehow dead, but also alive. He supposes at this moment he is both. “M-Mas…”

“Shhh.” Nandor’s energy is all but spent. He relaxes against Guillermo’s body on the hard, tiled floor, curling fingertips into the fabric of his shirtfront. The blood remains though the wound is healed...but they will both need rest. “Don’t talk,” he cautions. “I am here.”

Vampires of all covens, boroughs and branches scatter to the four winds, fearful of the Council’s judgment, as Laszlo and Nadja approach them.

Nadja squeezes Laszlo’s hand. For once, they are somber and in agreement.

“Let’s get them home.”


End file.
